From a Distance
by PhoenixFlame123
Summary: Sherlock is undercover and hunting down all of Moriarty's assassins, one by one. However, when John is severely hurt and Sherlock is not allowed to visit him for fear of blowing his cover, all Sherlock can do is sit, miles away, and watch his best friend die from a distance. / One year after Reich. Can be seen as bromance or Johnlock, take your pick. Please read!


** Hello! If you happen to be reading my other Sherlock fanfiction I have up, don't worry, I'm going to keep updating that, too. I just had the sudden inspiration for this and needed to get it down. :) Please tell me what you think!**

** This takes place after Reichenbach. So yeah.**

** Disclaimer: I am American and this has not been Brit-picked. Don't be mad if I get things wrong. :D**

** *Does it look like I own Sherlock?**

** **The answer to that question is no.**

** ***Please don't sue me.**

** ****Also I made 'Jason Chroe' up. So yeah.**

** ~Phoenix**

-oOo-

Looking back, Sherlock really wished he hadn't watched the news.

It wasn't like he really cared about anything in the media. He never had. It had always seemed so trivial, so inconclusive; so what, there's a cat in a tree - so what, there's a famine in Africa - so what, there's a new prime minister - it didn't make any difference, and he didn't bother himself with it.

But after he had been forced into hiding, after everything about his routine had changed, Sherlock had gotten used to watching the news. You never knew if something he needed to know would pop up; if there was some freak accident with one of the assassins he had been tracking down, he could follow the trail and catch them there.

So far, it hadn't worked out that way, but the familiarity of the news had become a sort of comfort to him.

It made him feel more connected to the world around him.

The only other thing that kept him connected was Mycroft, who only texted him if there was something of extreme importance happening. And yes, his brother had resorted to texting; it was too hard to find a place where there wouldn't be people hearing Mycroft talking to his apparently-dead brother. Mycroft texted him if they had gotten word of another assassin, if Sherlock had started to raise too much attention to himself, or if there was something very major he needed to know about.

Sherlock needed to keep his cover, and Mycroft was helping him.

For that, he was grateful.

(Not that he would ever admit that to his older brother.)

Today was nothing unusual in the life of the reborn Sherlock Holmes. He woke from his brief slumber stretched out on the uncomfortable bed he had collapsed on, a back room of a little inn in Scotland - _Scotland!_

He had been there hunting down one of his tougher opponents to date, an assassin named Jason Chroe. He was a huge, ugly brute, but still as smart as any of the other assassins he had found. _(Just not as smart as _him_.)_ It hadn't been easy to dispose of him, but it was manageable, and Sherlock had collapsed in the closest inn he could find.

He sat up, stretching and yawning in unison, swinging his feet out of bed and feeling them hit the cold wooden floor. It had been days since he had slept, which hadn't helped his strength when he finally confronted Chroe. He grimaced.

John would have _made_ him get some rest.

He immediately shook his head and distracted his mind with something else. He didn't allow himself to think about John these days. It was becoming increasingly painful for him.

Mycroft hadn't told him much about how John was doing, and Sherlock was _not_ allowed to go within a twenty-mile radius of Baker Street, rather limiting Sherlock's freedom in London. Therefore he had chosen to base himself in a small town a few miles away from the city, given enough money by Mycroft to buy a tiny flat and using his skills to completely disguise himself. When he was not on an assassin's trail, he would often stare in the direction of London and think about going back.

He knew that John was torn up. God knows that Sherlock would be if the roles had been reversed. And even though he _did_ hope that John would be able to move on, Sherlock held a certain sense of flattery at the thought of John being so upset that he couldn't function. It was selfish and rude, but then again... wasn't that exactly like Sherlock?

He shuffled out of bed and was pleased to see that there was a tiny, ancient-looking television set in the room. He tried to turn it on, and it fuzzed with static for a good minute before appearing with the face of a frantic news anchor.

"...from the police department has not been coming in, as this is still a very chaotic scene," the anchor was saying frantically, nervously adjusting the papers on their desk. The camera cut to a scene of a terribly familiar scene, the anchor continuing, "If you're just tuning in, there's been a mass shooting in a residential area in London. The shooter has been confirmed to be detained, but casualties have not been determined at the moment. We can confirm that this attack took place just a few minutes ago around 8:30, but the police have not made an official statement on the situation -"

Sherlock's brain was just accepting the fact that they were showing Baker Street on the television - showing Baker Street and talking about a mass shooting - when his phone buzzed.

He slowly, uncomprehendingly, lifted the phone to his gaze.

A text from Mycroft.

_**If you're seeing the news, do. not. panic. Don't panic, and do NOT come to Baker Street. Under any circumstances. MH**_

__Sherlock blinked. Blinked again.

He looked at the television, and his brain suddenly kicked into action with a violent, frantic jolt.

He shot up to his feet, unable to breathe, as the anchor continued listing the same facts over and over again - _casualties unconfirmed - casualties unconfirmed -_

_** Mycroft. Is John okay? SH**_

__He couldn't fully comprehend what he was texting, the words of the news anchor still drifting about in his head.

_**Don't panic. MH**_

_** Mycroft. Is John dead? SH**_

_** Sherlock, do not panic. MH**_

__The camera on the television was zooming in on an ambulance with flashing lights, focusing shakily on the view of paramedics rushing a body into the ambulance and roaring off, sirens blaring.

"Okay, we're getting reports in now from the police."

Sherlock's breath caught.

The reporter let out a breath. "As of now, there has only been one confirmed casualty -"

_ Please no-_

"-which has been the shooter."

And the tension slightly relented.

"However, there have been many confirmed injuries -"

He leaned forward -

"-and we have reliable sources telling us that among them, the most serious by far is a Dr. John Watson, who as you saw was just escorted to the hospital in critical condition."

Sherlock's world suddenly was crushing down on him, and it was difficult to breathe properly. He didn't blink, didn't move, just stared, incomprehensibly, at the screen.

_John._

"He has been reported to have been shot multiple times in the chest, and it is unknown whether or not he will survive. Other injured persons include a Ms. Kelsey Mc-"

But the rest was toned out, and in Sherlock's head, only one phrase repeated itself over and over.

_unknown whether or not he will survive_

_ unknown whether or not he will survive_

_ unknown_

_ unknown_

_ unknown_

John was dying, and he couldn't be with him.

John was dying, and all he could do was watch.

Watch him die from a distance.


End file.
